Closing Time
by SeaweedWrites
Summary: This is isn't a true 'East Wind' fic, as it's just a drabble, but it fits in this universe. It's from John Watson's perspective. John deserves a whole story, but I'm still fleshing it out, so this'll do John Watson isn't taking the death of his best friend very well at all It takes place kinda after the second fic, "To Absent Friends". You don't have to read it, but it helps


I had an idea a while ago to write in a bit of an alternative time line. This story deviates at the end of "The Reichenbach Fall". And it all starts with the premise of 'What if Sherlock really did die?'

My idea is to write different stories in this universe dealing with the immediate aftermath of Sherlock jumping from the stop of St. Barts. Each story will be told from the perspective of a different character, and it will be different moments in time, so I wont overlap and repeat.

It may change but for now, all the stories will be set in the time from right after the fall until shortly after the funeral.

So I am calling this my 'East Wind' Universe, and all the fics that are written in it will be marked that they are a part of it. This is isn't a true 'East Wind' fic, as it's just a drabble, but it fits in this universe. It's from John Watson's perspective. John deserves a whole story, not just a drabble, and I have an idea, but I'm still fleshing it out, so this will have to do for now.

John Watson isn't taking the death of his best friend very well at all.

It takes place kinda after the second fic, "To Absent Friends". It's the evening after he meets up with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson at 221B. You don't have to read it, but it might help a little.

Written while listening to "Closing Time" by Semisonic (quite a few times)

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The liquid burnt hard going down his throat.

He welcomed the pain. He had asked for the harshest whiskey they had.

He wanted the burn.

He deserved it.

How many had he had so far?

Did it even really matter?

Dreary, fuzzy eyes tried to look at the clock on the wall, but the numbers might as well have been in another language, because he couldn't read them.

"Closing time." A deep, gruff voice from the bar that he couldn't focus on announced. "Ya don' have to go home, but'cha can't stay 'ere."

He held up his empty glass and somehow managed to slur "One more?" At least, that is what he tried to say, though he wasn't really sure if that was what it ended up sounding like.

"You've 'ad enough, mate. Come on. Settle the tab, then out wit'cha."

It took several minutes and dropping his wallet a few times to finally fish out what he hoped was enough for... whatever he had drank. The bartender handed him a couple of coins back and he somehow got them in his pocket on the first try.

Small miracles..

"Go on, off ya pop. Go home."

Home.

Where was he supposed to go? There was no way that he could go to Baker Street. Not after...

Today.

"I have nowhere to go."

Somewhere in his alcohol riddled mind, he found it funny that the bartender obviously spoke drunk. He was pretty damn sure that he was barely coherent, but the bartender seemed to understand him.

"Sorry, mate. Not me problem. I gotta close up. Off ya go."

He nodded and stood to get up, but the whole room started to spin, and suddenly his legs turned into spaghetti and he was looking up at the ceiling and the bar rose up to meet him and he was falling and when had all of that happened?

Somewhere far away he could have sworn he heard a loud -CRACK- and a flash of pain, and then, blissfully, nothing.

The bartender had already turned away and reached for the phone to call 999, even before the man finished crumpling to the ground. As soon as he gave the pertinent information, he hurtled the bar to the other side, where the man lay in a heap, a nice gash on the side of his head.

He took what hoped was a clean rag from his pocket, where he had been about to start cleaning the top of the bar, and held it to the man's head. The guy was breathing, but he had been knocked out cold.

"Oi. Yer gonna feel this in the mornin' mate." The bartender shook his head softly. He knew enough to try not to move the drunk, even though he was in quite an awkward position, a heap of limbs between the tall bar stools.

It took less than 10 minutes for the medics to get there, but it seemed much longer. All the bartender could think of while he was waiting was how far behind this was going to put him in cleaning up. And now there was blood. He felt bad that he didn't feel worse for this guy. But he had seen so many drunks come and go that he had learned that feeling bad for them didn't help either of them.

The medics were quick and efficient, and they even game him some disposable rags to clean up the blood. They were only there for a few minutes, then they were gone, and the man was out of his life. He hoped that the guy would never come back. Those were the kinds of patrons that he could live without.

The bartender sighed and started to do his closing duties. His wife was going to kill him. Another late night, another 'stupid drunk' story.

As he finally closed up and locked the front door, his mind wandered back to the drunk at the bar. He had seemed familiar, though he couldn't place the face. He shrugged off that odd thought that he knew the man from somewhere or another and locked the bar up tight.

He certainly didn't envy the headache the poor man would have in the morning.

The bartender had enough of his own worries, and quickly the thoughts about the random drunk were replaced with the thoughts of a warm bed and a wife to cuddle up with.

 _'I have nowhere to go.'_

'Poor guy. At least he has a place to sleep tonight.' The bartender thought, as he started his car and headed home.


End file.
